


Act VI

by clockworkrobots



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, M/M, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 04:59:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2609408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkrobots/pseuds/clockworkrobots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each episode of Supernatural has 5 acts. This is the 6th one.</p>
<p>Spoilers for 10.05.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Act VI

"Hey, hey Cas," Sam calls out, as he pokes his head back into the kitchen only moments after he’d stepped out of it to leave Dean and Cas to the task of doing the dishes. After weeks of somewhat fruitless travel to find more of Hannah’s missing angels, Castiel had turned up earlier that morning at their door, and of course Dean, though he would not admit it, celebrated by cooking a large, delicious meal.

"Yes?" Castiel asks without turning around, gathering plates off of the table to take over to the sink.

Sam casts a glance at his brother, who’s eyes immediately narrow in suspicion.

"Ask Dean about  _'Destiel'_.”

Cas blinks and repeats “Destiel?” right at the same time Dean’s entire face drains of colour, and balks, “Oh my god, you  _asshole_. Go the fuck  _away!_ ”

And, because he’s the loving sibling that he his, Sam just grins, and says, “You’re welcome!”, before running away.

"You  _shit head fuck!_ " Dean yells after him, colour now returning to his face at a frankly amazing pace as it flushes practically scarlet. He abandons the dishes he was scrubbing to the bottom of the sink and leans against the counter, head bowed in frustration and embarrassment.

Cas looks at him, concerned. “Dean?”

Dean shakes his head. “God, that asshole,” he huffs, avoiding Cas’ eyes.

Castiel walks over to the sink tentatively to pass Dean his stack of collected dishes. “I—You don’t have to tell me anything you feel uncomfortable with, Dean,” he tells him, hoping to console his friend and ease both of their bewilderment.

Dean takes the offered plates and dumps them into the soapy water. “No it’s—” he shakes his head again. “I mean, yeah, it’s stupid. But it’s—whatever, you know?” Dean shrugs.

Cas pauses, at somewhat of a loss. He knows it’s not unlike Dean to act erratic like this when he’s nervous, he just wishes he knew over  _what_. “I don’t think I _do_  know,” he says, earnestly, which apparently makes Dean laugh.

“ _God,_ " he chuckles anxiously, wiping a wet hand on his jeans before dragging it through his hair, _“_ neither do I.”

He walks over to the table they’d just dined at, sharing brief stories of their respective routines of the last few weeks, and flops down in the nearest chair. He looks tired, Cas notes, and not the usual kind of tired he often sees on Dean’s face these days. No this is—this is something else.

Quietly, he follows him, and sits in the chair across the table, looking at Dean patiently, until he’s ready.

After a few moments, where the only sound in the room is the subtle _drip drip drip_  of the weak faucet, Dean speaks. “There were these kids, uh, that we met a few weeks back.”

"On a case?" Cas asks, with that little crease forming between his eyes that’s not quite a frown. He watches Dean’s hands as they draw mindless patterns in the wood grain, restless. He knows the feeling.

"Yeah. Greek goddess in a high school. Calliope? I think?"

Cas nods in understanding. “The muse.”

"Yeah, that," Dean nods, and takes a deep breath. "That part doesn’t really matter though, I guess. The thing was—" he  cuts himself off with another nervous laugh, though he still doesn’t look up at Cas just yet. "God, it was fucking weird. And I  _know_  weird. Our lives are fucked up as hell. But this? This was the weirdest thing I have ever seen.”

"The teenagers?" 

Dean swallows thickly before answering. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough, on edge. “They were—Well. They were putting on a fucking _musical_  about our lives. Based on the  _Supernatural_  books, or whatever.”

Oh. Well, then. Castiel can see how that might have been awkward, remembering how indignant Dean had been to find out about the Gospels, years ago. “That must have been strange to see.”

"You don’t know the half of it," Dean huffs, almost as if still in disbelief himself. "It was all so fucking wild. And then there were the two girls—the one who played me, in the, uh, play. Musical. She had a, um, girlfriend?" he  says, and his cheeks begin flushing pink again. "Who played you. And Adam, actually," he adds as a quick afterthought, "But mostly you."

Castiel does not know quite what to do with this information, or what Dean expects of it, either. He tries to remain calm and composed for Dean’s sake, but he feels caught a bit adrift again, lost at sea. “That’s—”

"I mean, it was sweet," Dean continues on, as if he hadn’t heard him. "High school definitely wasn’t that accepting of  _that_  when, I, you know, went.” he waves his hand around in a distracted sort of emphasis.

Cas squints. “Homosexuality?”

"Yeah," Dean croaks out, sounding breathless. "Or just- _-any_  of it. All that… acronym stuff. Not that I—I mean, there were  _some_ —my life had enough fucked up shit in it chasing monsters and looking after Sammy to have a crisis of sexuality.”

All of a sudden, Castiel realises what this must be about. Dean’s blushing, his nervousness, his simultaneous need to explain but also his fear too, his fumbling for the right words. Human social customs around sexuality and gender have always somewhat mystified Castiel, even to this day, but he does understand human cruelty. Fear.

He tampers an impulse to reach out of Dean’s hand across the table, wondering if that might not be too jarring of a thing right now for Dean. So instead, he asks, softly and sincerely, ”Are you having one now?”

The laugh Dean barks out his harsh, self-mocking. Castiel dislikes the sound of it. “God, I don’t know. Maybe,” he says, wiping a hand over his face. “Fuck, isn’t that sad.”

"I don’t think so," Castiel says, and he means it with all his weary heart. Dean is resilience  _embodied_ , Castiel thinks, but still, there has been so much he has been put through that no one, least of all  _Dean,_  deserves.  ”It’s not your fault that you weren’t able to deal with it before.”

Dean waves this consolation off. “Nah, but… It’s not like I didn’t  _know,”_ he says, “I fooled around with guys, sometimes. I fooled around with girls. But it was never—nothing is ever permanent for me, you know. There was never any question of worrying what would happen if I brought a—a guy home, ‘cause I would never bring  _anyone_  home. Hell, I didn’t even have a home.”

"You didn’t have the childhood you were owed," Cas impresses, chest aching for the happiness that was stolen from him. He has met many children, in the past few years, and has strived to help them. To comfort them. To celebrate them for the brilliance they are, the epitome of human curiosity and creativity. He wishes, with a twisting force, that he could have been there for Dean.

It’s Dean’s turn to frown, looking down at his hands on the table top, as they yearn for reprieve from idleness. “It’s stupid, though, ‘cause seeing those kids… Dressed like you and me, all… happy and giggly. It just hit me that I—” he fumbles for his words, setting his jaw in frustration.

"What?" Cas prompts.

Finally, Dean looks up. His eyes are wide, red rimmed, and pleading. Castiel’s own hands twitch again, to smooth down the lines of them, to touch their corners and watch their eyelids fall closed in relief.

"That I’m tired, Cas," he says, holding his gaze. "I’m tired of pretending. I’m a shitty fucking actor, anyway."

Castiel feels winded, breathless, pulled to the edge by his friend to a precipice he cannot name. “Tired of pretending what?” he asks in a near whisper. 

Later, Castiel will remember the way the corner’s of his friend’s mouth quirked up in a small, self-deprecating smile. He will remember the way his eyes shone, the way his shoulders hunched, the way the freckles on Dean’s cheek reflected the electrical light overhead. But in the moment, all Cas can register are the words ringing in his ear, “That I’m not some kind of fucked up in love with you.”

His face breaks. “ _Dean,_ " he begins, but to say what, he does not know. Maybe the name alone is enough,  _should be_  enough, to say everything he’s always wanted to. In the way he knows that when Dean says his own name, it means a thousand things.

Dean barrels on, as if tumbling down a hill at full speed and cannot stop even if he wanted to. “And it terrifies me, yeah. I have no idea what to do, man. But I—you should know, right?”

"I—Yes," Castiel swallows. His  _(stolen)_  body feels detached as his  _(stolen)_ grace writhes inside him, his hands too distant, too heavy to raise and do what he wants, to reach for what he wants,  _has wanted_  for what is literal lifetimes.

He takes a deep breath, and says the only thing he knows for certain in that moment: “I’m glad I know.”

This, however, is apparently not what Dean wanted to hear. Immediately, his face shutters closed, his hands coiling in on them selves as the line of his shoulders tighten and he sits up artificially straight, strained. “Well, there it is,” he states blandly, trying to feign indifference. He begins to stand up, to walk past Castiel into the safety of the corridor, who’s walls will not remember this conversation took place. “Um, yeah. So now that’s covered, I’ll just—”

But before Dean can pass him, Castiel reaches out, and grips his arm. “Dean.”

Dean stares at him, eyes wide with confusion and fear. Castiel hates to see it there. “Cas?” he asks, struggling to keep his voice from shaking. He looks down to wear Cas’ hand is curled around Dean’s forearm, where the Mark of Cain still burns against his skin.

Castiel releases his grip stands up, chest mere inches away from Dean’s own. The position is both familiar and yet utterly alien, as Castiel’s eyes bore into Dean’s with a purposeful intensity, and say what he should have said many years ago.

"There are things you should know, too," he starts, trying to keep his own voice steady, too, as his heart pounds against his ribcage. Perhaps the human body is too fragile for words like these, but if there was anything worth dying for, as Dean once said,  _this is it._

"Like what?"

Castiel puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder, and smiles. Even through the layers of cotton of Dean’s clothes, it feels like coming home.

"That you are a brave man, and a beautiful one," he tells him. "That you are kind, and generous, and passionate ,and the greatest man I’ve ever known. That you’re my friend, and I am so grateful for that."

Dean’s face is flushed again, eyes shining with a thousand feelings at once, too many for Castiel to name. But he does not back away, which Castiel takes as a good sign. Instead, he chuckles breathlessly, ”That all?” 

It’s now or never.

"And that I’ve loved you for so long."

“ _Shit,_  Cas—” Dean sways in and reaches out, hands finding purchase first on the sleeve of Cas’ suit. Castiel’s had on his shoulder steadies them, and for a delirious, disbelieving moment, they just hold each other, there in place, to convince themselves that this is _real_.

They grip each other, grounding them both there, in this stolen moment of stolen happiness. They never claimed to obey the law for a living.

Dean’s face breaks out in a grin of wonder as Castiel adds, “Just so you know.”

 

***

 

Later, Dean achieves retribution against Sam for meddling when he scars his brother for life by the sight of Cas deep throating him against the kitchen counter.


End file.
